


The Naming of Cats

by Mad_Maudlin



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon What Canon, Everyone Is Mostly Happy AU, Gen, Jon Is Literally A Cat AU, Martin Blackwood deserves nice things, can easily be read as preslash because I'm me, no powers au, nobody dies au, reference to sexual harassment, some sad things happen to animals, some well-deserved things happen to Elias and Peter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-12-16 22:00:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21043445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mad_Maudlin/pseuds/Mad_Maudlin
Summary: A cat has absolute emotional honesty: human beings, for one reason or another, may hide their feelings, but a cat does not. — Ernest HemmingwayMartin didn't remember exactly when he first saw the little gray cat.





	1. Chapter 1

Martin didn't remember exactly when he first saw the little gray cat. There were a lot of cats around his neighborhood, and the skips behind his building were a frequent place for them to congregate. He couldn't afford a pet of his own, but he enjoyed interacting with the ones he chanced upon; eventually he learned which ones would deign to be petted, or even weave around his ankles when they saw him coming.

The gray cat was not one of these. It had no collar, and was so painfully thin that Martin assumed it had to be a stray (or, judging by the array of scars it had collected, born feral). It was a scruffy mackerel tabby with heterochromatic eyes, one green-gold and one a startling blue. He tried, on several occasions, to lure it to him — first with soft words, later with bits of cheese or chunks of meat picked out of his takeaway. The gray cat snubbed him, at first, fleeing before he could even get a close look at it, but eventually began to slink up to him with pinned ears and a fluffed tail. It snatched the food from his fingers and ran off with it, vanishing into the shadows or under a parked car.

It was progress, at least, and Martin was a patient man. He started carrying cat treats in his bag.

* * *

There wasn't anything odd about not seeing a specific cat for a day or two; there were a lot of cats in the neighborhood, and they came and went after their own schedules. When it became three or four days, Martin usually noticed, especially with the little gray cat who didn't seem to have a home. He didn't think he'd ever gone a solid week without seeing that one at least once—

Well. There had been the time he spent holed up in his flat, fighting off some kind of hellacious stomach bug, and didn't see any cats at all. But he didn't really count those, since he didn't really go outside — mostly he'd spent the time curled up in bed or wrapped around the toilet. It was hard to worry about stray cats when he was throwing up what felt like everything he'd ever eaten in his life.

He emerged, grudgingly, after nearly two weeks, partly to finally see a doctor about it but mostly because he'd run out of groceries. The gray cat almost seemed to be waiting for him: it approached with its tail at half-mast, coming just about within arm's reach and sniffing at him.

"Sorry," Martin croaked. "Didn't bring you anything this time." He tried reaching out a hand to it anyway, but without the allure of gyro meat, it arched and bolted. Figured.

(He was diagnosed with giardia, of all things, even though he'd never been abroad. Apparently you could pick up all kinds of parasites in London.)

* * *

Martin liked his job, most of the time, and he liked his co-workers: Tim was funny, Sasha was clever and kind, Gertrude was … well, terrifying, but she kept Elias off their backs. The archives were a pleasant sort of controlled chaos, and if the hours were sometimes long or the objects of research unsettling, he'd still had worse jobs.

They went out socially every now and again — not Gertrude, obviously, but the other three. Tim always knew of some club or another, and Sasha liked to look up quirky little coffee shops or craft breweries, but when it was Martin's turn to pick they usually just ended up at his local for a few pints and casual chatter. It was cheap and friendly and he enjoyed it probably more than he ought to.

After one of these nights ended in a few more pints than usual, Martin offered Sasha his sofa, so she didn't have to make the long commute back to her flat. "You are a gentleman," she said, taking his arm, and they walked back to his place in a companionable silence after seeing Tim off in his cab.

Martin's flat was a walk-up, and he fumbled with his keys a bit at the steps, beer making him clumsy. "Sorry," he told Sasha.

"It's fine," she said, and yawned. Then she perked up. "Did you hear that?"

"Hear wha—?"

It was very faint, when he did catch it: a mournful moaning that sounded almost like a crying child. Martin looked around, trying to pinpoint the source; Sasha pointed to his neighbors' minivan parked nearby. "You don't think someone's trapped in the car, do you?" she asked.

"No," Martin said, but he slowly approached the vehicle anyway. There were no lights inside it, and no signs of movement, but the crying continued. In a sudden moment of inspiration, he knelt down and used the torch on his phone to peer under the van.

The odd-eyed gray cat was under the van, laying on its side and breathing fast and shallow.

"It's a cat," he called to Sasha. He reached out for the cat, but it swiped at his hand with one paw. "Hey! Hey, it's okay, I'm not going to hurt you."

Sasha knelt on the other side of the van and brought her own phone to bear. With the aid of the new light source, it became obvious why the cat was crying out: there was a large, swollen wound on one of its hind legs, crusted with pus and dried blood. "Oh, you poor thing," she said. When she reached out, the cat tolerated a little scratching of its belly, but when her hand got closer to the wound it hissed and swiped again.

"We're trying to help you, you little monster," Martin grumbled. He tried reaching out with his other hand for its scruff, but the cat twisted around and chomped on his finger. "Ow!"

"We should get a towel," Sasha suggested. "We used to grab the neighbor's cat with a towel when it got trapped in our cellar."

That was a good idea, actually. Martin fished the crumpled packet of treats out of his jacket and passed them to her. "Maybe these will cheer it up. I'll be right back down."

He brought a tea towel and a full-sized bath towel; the former he wrapped around his hand and forearm for protection. Sasha was still sat next to the van when he came back down, making kissy noises. "He doesn't seem to want any treats," she said.

"You're sure it's a he?"

"Oh, yes. Intact tomcat, by the looks of it."

Well, that explained a few things about its behavior and general temperament. Martin lay down flat on his stomach, and reached his towel-wrapped arm towards the cat. It sank its fangs into the fabric again, but he was able to catch it by the scruff and pull it across the pavement. Sasha was ready with the big towel, enveloping the spitting, struggling animal and wrapping it up firmly so only its head and tail were poking out. "There we go," she said soothingly. "It's all right, we're going to take care of you."

The cat, surprisingly, seemed to accept the proposition, though its ears were still flat and the protruding tip of its tail was puffed out and lashing.

They shut the cat up in Martin's bath temporarily, and Martin made tea for them both while Sasha looked up animal hospitals in the area. "That's my weekend planned, then," Martin said.

"Maybe he's microchipped," she said optimistically. "You could reunite a beloved pet with its family."

Martin made a skeptical noise; the gray cat had been hanging around here for years, with no sign of human care. "I think it's feral, actually," he said. "But maybe they'll know a place that rescues feral cats."

Sasha smiled and teased, "You don't want to keep it?"

Martin chuckled and shook his head. "Can't really afford a pet. And it wouldn't be fair, the hours we work."

"Still. It's a pretty little thing, or it would be if you got it fattened up a bit."

Martin brought her a blanket and an old t-shirt of his to sleep in, and checked on the cat while she changed. He half-expected it to bolt for the door as soon as it was opened, but instead he found it in much the same pose it had been in under the van, eyes half-lidded. The swelling on its leg was an angry red, and at some point during their struggle it had started oozing bloody pus again. He wasn't sure how to tell if a cat had a fever — wasn't it something with their noses? Or was that only dogs? He didn't want to get close enough to its teeth to find out.

Instead he set out a saucer of water and a few treats for it, while it watched his every move with either suspicion or disdain. "Don't worry," he found himself saying. "We'll get you sorted and back on the prowl in no time."

The cat made a trilling sound deep in its throat that almost, almost sounded like scoffing.

* * *

The vet said that it wasn't unusual for a cat to present with an abscess like this one. "Nine times out of ten, they've been fighting and a bite wound gets infected," she explained, probing the swelling while Martin held the cat still. That sounded about right; the gray tabby probably only weighed eight pounds soaking wet, but Martin had seen it square up, hissing, against much larger cats, and it had the battle scars to prove it. "Looks like you got him here in the nick of time, though. A little debriding and some antibiotics and he'll be right as rain."

While the cat was treated in the back, Martin paid at the counter — a jaw-dropping sum, but as long as it was a one-time thing and not an ongoing expense it was fine, right? "What's your cat's name?" the receptionist asked as she entered his debit card number.

"Eh? Oh! It's not actually my cat," Martin explained. "Just a stray I found."

She nodded. "I'll ask one of the techs to check for a microchip."

There was no chip; when they returned the cat to him (in a proper carrier, not the cardboard box he'd brought it in) the paperwork said JOHN DOE. "Turns out it was some kind of bot fly bite," the vet explained. "Not something we see a lot of in London, but not hard to take care of, either. It'll take a few weeks for that leg to heal up, and you should keep an eye on him to make sure the infection doesn't recur."

"Right," Martin said. "Only I don't...I'm not really set up for a cat? I was sort of hoping you knew a good shelter…"

She sighed. "I know a few, yeah, but they're all pretty crowded right now. And for a cat with injuries like this, they'd be wanting to foster it in a home anyway…."

Martin's stomach sank. "Right. I, er, thanks."

He watched the cat sleep off its anesthetic on the bus ride home. JOHN DOE, the papers said. He supposed that was as good a name as any.


	2. Chapter 2

John Doe the cat had strong opinions upon awakening. He did not like the bandage. He did not like the plastic cone that kept him from gnawing on the bandage. He did not like the antibiotic tablets, even when Martin crushed them and mixed them up in some tuna. He _especially _did not like to be touched, and would thrash his whole scrawny body to avoid it.

Martin had to touch him anyway, to brush out his fur and deliver flea drops and force antibiotics down his throat. He did it as gently as he could manage, and always offered copious treats afterwards to atone for the indignity. "It's for your own good, you twit," he muttered, as John chowed down on Fancy Feast. "Not that you understand that, of course."

John looked up from his dish to glower at Martin for a moment, mismatched eyes narrow and slitted.

Martin snickered. "Go on, finish your supper. Keep eating like that and you might start looking like a real cat, you know?"

John was surprisingly well-suited to indoor life for a feral cat; he didn't knock things over or chew on wires (much), and while he sharpened his claws on the furniture, he always managed to do it when Martin wasn't looking. He took to using the litterbox immediately, and screamed if it wasn't cleaned to his exacting specifications. He didn't spray, which Martin had been afraid of, so when the vet called about a follow-up appointment Martin declined to pay for desexing. He did invest in vaccinations, though, and a plastic flea collar that John almost immediately wiggled out of.

Most surprisingly, John didn't try to escape the flat once during his recuperation, though after the first week he regularly installed himself in the bedroom window to watch street traffic. Martin knew it was a bad idea, he knew he shouldn't get attached, but a part of him did start to wonder if, just maybe, the scrawny gray tabby had finally decided domesticity was for him.

"How would you feel about a proper collar?" Martin asked, drowsily, as he scooped cat food into a dish.

John's eats went flat and his hackles rose, at least for the few seconds it took Martin to present him with food. He ate a few bites, and then took off on Cat Business, which this week involved getting himself repeatedly stuck in the cavity wall.

The day after the vet gave John a clean bill of health, Martin found him curled up on the same couch cushion he always slept on, and fed him the same plate of food. But when Martin opened the front door of the flat to leave for work, John shot past him like a bullet and was down the stairs before Martin could fully process what had happened.

A few days later, he saw John down the street from his building, perched on the windowsill of a shop. He bolted when Martin called out to him.

Oh, well.

* * *

As autumn took hold, John Doe occasionally returned to Martin's doorstep, screaming imperiously; if Martin allowed it, he walked freely into the flat and started searching for food, or just curled up on his cushion for the night. He always fled again after a day or two, though, and Martin eventually gave up trying to stop him. He told himself that John had clearly survived many winters on the streets of London, and would likely survive plenty more with or without human intervention. He was eight pounds of fluff, claws and concentrated spite, and it wasn't like Martin could really afford the tinned food every week.

Besides, work had become needlessly dramatic recently, and he had actual humans to be worrying about. Sasha had a new boyfriend who took up every free minute of her day, and Tim, despite his feverish denials, was so envious he might just Hulk out. "You dated once, two years ago," Martin reminded him frequently. "You said it was a mutual decision."

"It was," he always said, before he went back to sulking at his desk or disparaging The Posh Bastard (which he only called him behind Sasha's back).

Martin ended up running a lot of interference for both of them, to keep Gertrude from noticing anything was amiss, and it was exhausting. The breaking point finally came when Sasha refused to come to pub night without The Posh Bastard and Tim refused to remain in his presence. They ended up having a row in the document storage room, and Tim charged off to the pub, Martin trailing awkwardly behind him.

Several hours and far too much whiskey later, a very handsy Tim was trailing after Martin as Martin tried to lead him home. Navigating the buses to Tim's place was out of the question; Martin's flat, while not exactly close, was at least a walkable trip. "Shouldn't have let her go," Tim was mumbling into Martin's ear periodically. "Shoulda kept her. Make my parents proud 'n' stuff."

Martin rolled his eyes. As a romantic, he could appreciate carrying a torch, and he understood disappointing your family on several different levels. More importantly, though, he also thought Tim was a whole idiot if he'd actually expected Sasha to wait around indefinitely until he felt like getting his life in order. He wasn't sure he could actually tell him so, however; definitely not when he was this drunk.

They were nearly to Martin's flat when Tim had to step off the pavement to be sick; Martin's grip on his coat was the only reason he didn't fall on his face, probably. Martin looked away, to give Tim some dignity, until the spitting and belching stopped and Tim suddenly slurred, "Issa kitty."

"It certainly is," Martin said absently, then almost fell when Tim suddenly lurched forward in pursuit of said kitty. "Tim. Tim, this is not a good idea. C'mon, Tim we're almost there—"

But Tim was saying, "Hi, kitty kitty kitty," and shoved his hand into a potted shrubbery. Then he shrieked, and pulled the same hand back, now oozing blood from four neat lines. "Aaargh! Fucking _fuck!" _

An intuition told Martin to bend down and peer through the dead leaves himself; he found wide eyes looking back, one blue and one green-gold. "John!" he blurted, and reached into the shrubbery himself, stopping only when the cat growled a warning.

"Bad kitty," Tim pouted. "Bastard."

"He is not," Martin said. He tried reaching around from the side to distract John Doe, which usually worked, and managed to catch him by the scruff. The little cat dug in with his claws, howling almost as much as Tim had, but Martin managed to pull him out of the planter and get a good look at him. He was getting thin again, and there was a mat of dried blood on one of his front legs, but that didn't seem to stop him from swiping and spitting like the compressed ball of rage he was. "Oh, John, what've you done to yourself now?"

"What's he done to _me?" _Tim whined. "And why are you callin' it _John?"_

Martin considered trying to reel out the whole story, but Tim wasn't nearly sober enough to appreciate it. "That's his name," was all he said, as he tried to wrestle John into a more secure hold.

Tim sniffed. "Stupid name for a cat."

John eeled his way out of Martin's grip and vaulted off his shoulder, only to disappear into the shadows whence he came. Damn it. Martin would just have to hope he'd come back to the flat on his own, to get that wound looked at. Speaking of which ... "Come on, Tim. Almost home."

* * *

Sasha and Tim made up, eventually, but the damage had been done. Pub nights with the team increasingly turned into Tim getting maudlin-drunk while Martin tried in vain to cheer him up, or more realistically, keep him from doing something stupid — like tattoos, or piercings, or drunk-dialing a selection of exes. These pub nights also happened less and less frequently in Stockwell, because nearly every time Tim came round to Martin's, he was attacked.

"Fucking murder goblin," Tim muttered, while Martin applied a plaster to his scratched ankle. "It's stalking me."

"He's not stalking you," Martin said. "He's a stray, he roams around the whole area."

"Including your flat?"

"Sometimes he visits."

Tim rolled his eyes at that. "It's holding a grudge, Martin. It's trying to kill me personally."

Martin sighed. "Maybe if you didn't try to _kick _him every time you saw him..."

"It's self defense!"

"You are a six-foot human with opposable thumbs," Martin muttered. "I really don't think you need to worry about an eight-pound cat."

Said cat might be more like seven pounds, at this point, though Martin did his best to keep him fed. When he didn't deign to come inside, he could be lured close with bits of cooked chicken or crumbled cheese, and in the seconds it took him to snarf down the treat Martin could perform a fast visual scan for injuries. Occasionally, John lingered a few minutes to lick at Martin's fingers; he still wouldn't submit to petting, though, even when he screamed his way inside.

"You need to stop attacking Tim," Martin told him softly at one point. "He's not going to hurt you."

John's tail lashed, but he didn't stop licking the yoghurt off Martin's finger.

Martin sighed. "How are you even this violent when you're the size of a cantaloupe? Are you obsessed? Do you need an intervention?"

John finished the yoghurt and stalked away, back to whatever Cat Business he had outside. Martin shook his head, and put the rest of the yoghurt back in his shopping bag.

* * *

There wasn't anything odd about not seeing a specific cat for a day or two. When it became three or four days, Martin became uneasy. When it had been a solid week with no stripy gray bastard in sight, a nervous knot formed in his stomach, not at all helped by Sasha's announcement that she and the boyfriend were a) engaged and b) moving to Vancouver together.

"Congratulations," Tim said, with a rictus smile on his face, and then he went in the document storage room and did not come out again for a very long time.

Martin sensed a meltdown was imminent, and so he did the first thing he could think of: "Tim, would you help me look for John Doe after work today?"

The door of the storage room cracked. "Who?"

"The, er, murder cat," Martin prompted.

"...you're using me as bait, aren't you?"

"I haven't seen him in a week," Martin plead. "I just want to make sure he's okay." _And that you aren't going to go home and do something really, properly stupid._

Tim seemed to consider for a lot longer than the proposition merited, but eventually he sighed and said, "Sure. Fine. See you after work."

"...are you going to come out of the document storage before then?"

"I am not."

"All right. Good. Just, er, checking in."

He opened up more as they made their way through the damp, chilly streets of Martin's neighborhood, casting about for a cat that might or might not even still be around. "It's not even about Sasha anymore, honestly," Tim said tiredly. "Or not only about her. I just feel … stagnant, you know? I'm almost thirty-two, and what do I have to show for my life?"

"You've got friends," said Martin (who was almost thirty and didn't have much to show for it, either).

Tim scoffed. "No offense, but I don't think—"

He stopped, peering into a narrow alley between two buildings, and Martin doubled back to him. "D'you see something?" he asked eagerly, but his heart sank as he took in Tim's grimace. He looked down the alley, and immediately spotted the vivid streak of red that not even the recent rain had fully rinsed away. The remains were hardly even identifiable as a cat, thanks to whatever marauding car or van had done the work, but the tufts of visible fur were definitely gray. "Oh. Oh, no."

Tim awkward patted his back. "I'm sorry, Martin."

Martin swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat. "Let's … let's go have a drink, yeah?"


	3. Chapter 3

Sasha's replacement was a minor YouTube celebrity named Melanie, and that was weird enough on its own. She had been hired, apparently, directly by Elias, and this had somehow disrupted the subtle and opaque balance of power between him and Gertrude in unacceptable ways, though just what that meant for the archives Martin couldn't say. Melanie seemed to think that they all hated her because of her unconventional qualifications; Martin didn't know how to explain that Gertrude hated everyone, Tim was just having an early mid-life crisis, and he himself was in mourning for a semi-stray cat.

(He still fed the other cats in the neighborhood when he thought of it, petting the ones who were friendly enough to put up with such behavior, but it wasn't the same. John Doe had been special. John Doe was almost his.)

Things eventually settled into a new, less comfortable equilibrium, which involved a lot of Tim moping and a lot of Melanie shouting and a lot of Martin, once again, running interference with Gertrude so none of them got in trouble. Spring had finally arrived by the time Melanie deigned to join pub night, which didn't have the ameliorating effect on Tim's mood that Martin had hoped for.

"I got stabbed by a ghost, you know," Melanie said, drawing her finger through a ring of condensation on the table. "Shot at, too. All I got was a lousy _meme _out of it."

"I don't even have a meme," Tim said morosely.

Melanie snorted, then checked a text message on her phone. Whatever it was, it made her actually smile, so Martin dared to ask, "Anything good?"

"Just cat pictures," she said. "A friend of mine had to take hers to the vet today."

She turned the phone around, and Martin almost forgot how to breath. The picture was captioned _Two sad boys!! _and showed two cats curled up together on a cushion. The larger cat was a magnificent long-haired ginger thing, which seemed to be dozing. The smaller one, though, was looking right into the lens with an air of active malice: a gray mackerel tabby with mismatched eyes and a neon green bandage wound around one front leg. The blue eye was on the right, but Martin knew some apps flipped the picture….

"That's," Martin stammered, "that's...adorable, actually. Erm. Who's your friend….?"

Melanie's eyes narrowed. "A friend."

Right. Martin shouldn't try to be subtle, he was fantastically bad at it. "A YouTube friend?" he asked, hoping that was innocuous enough. "Or are all of them still avoiding you?"

"Not all of them," Melanie said, and then loudly asked Tim whether Elias was that awful all the time, or only around her?

It wasn't a lot to go on, but Martin's entire job sometimes involved starting with less. He spent the weekend curled up with his laptop, a notepad, and an ocean of tea, systematically following every link on every supernaturally-oriented YouTube channel he could find. By Monday morning he had narrowed down a list of names based on pronouns, connections to GhostHunt UK, and verifiable geographical details, and he proceeded to abuse some of his workplace database subscriptions to narrow that down further to just one name. One email, actually.

`To: contact@whattheghost.org.uk`

`From: mblackwood@magnus.ac.uk`

`Subject: Cat`

Martin stopped here, and pondered what to write. _I think you have my cat _was … inaccurate, first of all, and weirdly hostile? _I might know your cat _was just … odd. _Does your cat enjoy bleu cheese and grievous bodily harm _might be accurate, but would likely get a no-contact order filed against him on general principles.

`Hi, `he eventually settled on. `I know this is going to sound really weird, but I live on Eastcote Street and I think I recognize one of your cats…`

* * *

A few days later, he was standing outside a row of terraced houses on Kay Road — not far from his building as the crow flies (or, well, as the cat roams) but not a street he'd ever had a reason to explore before now. He checked the address multiple times before he worked up the nerve to knock on the door.

The woman who answered was short and gingery and had a mouth made for smiling. "Martin Blackwood, I presume?"

"Er, yeah," he stammered. "So you're — Ms. Barker?"

"Call me Georgie, please." She beckoned him into the house, which was just as cozy and inviting as it had seemed from the street. "So you're the big hero who saved my idiot cat?"

"Seems so," Martin stammered. He toed off his shoes and peered down the hall, towards the lounge. No sign of John Doe, but the orange cat had assumed the loaf position on top of a radiator. "Is he, I mean, is he okay?"

She shrugged, leading him into the kitchen. "Had some kind of run-in a few days ago — no idea what happened, but he came back with a nasty burn. Honestly, I wouldn't put it past him to have stuck his paw in a burning candle or something out of curiosity… Tea?"

"Oh, erm, sure." He couldn't help casting about for — actually, he probably shouldn't keep calling the cat _John Doe _at this point. "What's his proper name, anyway?"

Georgie shrugged as she topped up the kettle at the tap. "I've started calling him Gandalf. You know, since he's gray and he wanders. Used to call him the Marquis de Carabas, but that was … well, a long time ago."

Martin got one of those references, and it made him smile. "I've just been calling him John."

For some reason, that made Georgie pause at the sink. "Really," she said in an odd tone of voice.

"Yeah," Martin said warily. "As in — John Doe, you know? The vet's office called him that I just … used it."

"Right." She fitted the kettle onto its base and turned it on. "Not like he answers to any of them, thought, right?"

There was something off about her manner, suddenly, and Martin almost asked about it — but just then he felt a small pressure on the top of his foot. He looked down, and his heart leapt at the sight of John (or Gandalf, or the Marquis de Thingy) sniffing delicately at the hem of his trousers. One paw was still in bandages, which were only slightly gnawed. "Oh," Martin said softly, and the little gray cat flinched back but didn't bolt. "There you are."

John made a soft chirping noise, and then looked at Georgie as if asking permission.

"He must really like you," she said with a little smile. "He's not exactly sociable."

"Oh, I've noticed, believe me," Martin said. Tentatively, he reached out a hand; John fled the kitchen, but then his head reappeared around the edge of the door.

Georgie clicked her tongue. "Come on, you silly thing. You're the only one here that bites." The kettle clicked off, and she started pouring the tea.

John crept slowly back towards Martin, tension in every line of his body. Martin held himself very still, hardly daring to breathe, as the cat came right up to his outstretched hand and sniffed his fingers. Then, suddenly, Jon headbutted him, rubbing the side of his head against Martin's knuckles.

"Milk? Sugar?" Georgie asked.

"Oh, em, yes to both," Martin said, as Jon danced back again. He sat down a little ways away and began studiously washing his unbandaged paw, as if embarrassed by even the smallest display of affection.

Martin and Georgie chatted for a bit, about cats (her other one was called the Admiral, which suited to his majestic fluffiness) and the area (too expensive, but that was London) and their work (_What the Ghost_ was a fine podcast, if a bit sensational; the Magnus Institute was useful, if occasionally ridiculous). Martin had primed himself to dislike her, since she'd obviously never bothered to chip John Doe or take care of him properly, hadn't even gone looking for the whole month he was in Martin's care. But Georgie was funny and cheerful and interesting, and seemed to have very little control over what John did or did not do, and honestly, he sympathized.

"He's his own cat, really," she said wistfully. "The best I can do is give him a place to come back to if he's hurt and feed him up when he lets me."

"You're not worried?" Martin prompted. "When he goes off on his own?"

Her lips thinned a bit. "If I was, it wouldn't make a difference," she said. "He'd still go off and do whatever he does. And it just wouldn't be fair to keep him indoors. So I gave up worrying."

"That's…practical," Martin said. Maybe he didn't like very much after all.

They exchanged numbers, and Martin held out his hand one more time for Jon to sniff and bunt against. "Don't be a stranger, okay?" he said, even though it felt a bit foolish to address a cat like that. "There's always tuna at mine if you want it."

John, of course, did not have a response to that, because he was a cat. Martin thanked Georgie for the tea, and took his leave.

* * *

Martin did start seeing John around more often, though not as often as he used to, and with occasional terrifying month-long gaps. (Georgie was, as he suspected, much too sanguine during these times.) John showed Martin more obvious affection when he did show up, rubbing on his hand and consenting to petting for minutes at a time before bounding off on his own inscrutable cat business. Martin, in return, liberated him from several swatches of duct tape (where on earth had he found _that?)_ and shooed off two mangy-looking dogs who had chased him into the narrow space behind a skip.

It was a poor distraction from the continuing work drama. Elias hired another person without Gertrude's permission, an ex-police officer with a huge and terrifying girlfriend named Daisy. Basira was really just there to pick up Tim's slack around the archives, but Martin did not exactly appreciate her nosiness, and definitely didn't appreciate Daisy looming around the Institute on Basira's breaks.

Melanie, however, got along with Basira like a house on fire, and the two of them spent a lot of time with their heads together, talking and laughing. Which is why, when Melanie started missing a lot of work, Martin asked Basira if she knew what was up. Basira frowned at him, looked around, and then asked quietly, "You've worked here a long time, right?"

"Y-yes?" Martin asked, thinking it was a non-sequitur.

"How do they usually handle sexual harassment complaints?"

Martin frowned. "I think it depends? HR might send a letter if it's just, y'know, some comments or something, but anything serious usually goes straight to Mr. Bouchard…"

She frowned. "What if Mr. Bouchard is the harasser?"

"...Oh."

Which was how he got involved in a conspiracy to get Elias fired.

* * *

Gertrude helped, rather more enthusiastically than Martin expected, and wasn't even particularly scary about it. In fact, she had some good suggestions about who on the Institute's board of trustees would be both willing and able to undermine Elias and dig up dirt. Tim did not help, but that was because he finally resigned, in order to go "find himself" on an international kayaking trip. He promised to send pictures when he could.

They had one last big pub night, half farewell for Tim and half pre-conspiracy fortification for the rest of them. They even had it in Stockwell, on the grounds it was equally inconvenient for everyone except Martin. At the end of the night, everyone filed outside after settling tabs, Martin bringing up the rear; he exited the pub to find Tim shouting into a bin.

"—and I _don't forgive you! _Little shit!"

"What is he shouting at?" Martin asked the girls nervously.

"Cat," Daisy said, sounding bored.

"Why is he shouting at a cat?" Basira asked.

"Why is he shouting at _Georgie Barker's _cat?" Melanie demanded.

Martin sighed. "He's his own cat," he said, and steered Tim away from whatever pile of rubbish John had gotten himself trapped under.

John climbed Martin's shoulder readily, shaking and wild-eyed; the burn scars on his front paw finally seemed to be growing some hair again. Martin shushed the cat while Basira talked some sense into Tim. Melanie just stared at John, and John hissed in Melanie's direction. "That cat hates people," she said flatly.

"Maybe people should try being nicer," Martin shot back.

She huffed. "You're made for each other, aren't you?" She tried to reach out to John, but he hissed again and vaulted off Martin's shoulder, into the night. "Same to you, you mangy bastard."

"He hasn't got mange," Martin muttered, but she was already walking away. He glanced in the direction John had fled, wondering if he should pursue —

But the others were already leaving without him. John had his own business to attend to, whatever it was, and Martin had his. "Please be okay," he murmured under his breath, and then broke into a trot to catch up to the rest of the group. 


	4. Chapter 4

Looking back, that night and the following day were momentous for two reasons.

The first, of course, was getting Elias not just fired but _arrested _for tax evasion. The board would rapidly appoint a successor, of course, but in the moment it was tremendously satisfying to watch him get escorted out of the building by some of Basira's old police friends. The look on his face would warm Martin's heart for many years to come.

The second, rather less satisfying thing, was that it was the last time he saw John Doe.

At first he didn't even notice it, busy as he was with the transition of power at work. There wasn't anything odd about not seeing a specific cat for a day or two, after all. When it got to be a solid week, he texted Georgie, but she hadn't seen him either (and was frustratingly sanguine about it).

When it got to be a month, Martin searched the neighborhood, as thoroughly as he could. He found a lot of stray cats, but none was a gray tabby. He texted Georgie again, and again, until she blocked his number.

It shouldn't have bothered him as much as it did, except — that cat was _good_, was one good thing in his life, when everything else seemed to be going to shit. Because Elias's replacement, Peter Lukas, was somehow even worse: creepy and weird and reorganizing the whole Institute just, it seemed, for the fun of it. Elias had been awful only in private, with a genteel public face; plenty of people blamed the archives staff for getting him fired, so there went all his work friends who weren't Melanie or Basira. (On the other hand, Gertrude seemed to like it that way. But, well, she was Gertrude.)

They dealt with their pariah status in their own ways. Basira didn't give any outward reaction that anything ever bothered her, even when she offhandedly commented that Daisy had moved out and might be living in a cave in Wales for a while. Melanie just got _weirdly _into competitive ax-throwing. And Martin…well, Martin obsessed about a cat. Again.

(He didn't want to admit John Doe was probably dead. If he didn't see a body, it wasn't certain, after all. He could be Schroedinger's cat, both dead and alive, maybe indefinitely. Maybe he should start calling him that instead of John.)

* * *

Things came to a head when Gertrude caught a member of the public sneaking into the archives with a whole haddock wrapped in newspaper; what exactly he meant to do with it was not entirely clear to Martin, but Getrude gave him a round telling-off, and Melanie stood nearby, ostentatiously playing with one of her axes.

"Someone put him up to this," Gertrude said grimly once Melanie had forcefully escorted the man and his fish out of the building. "I need to speak to Peter."

"What's he going to do?" Melanie grumped. "Everyone hates him almost as much as they hate us for bringing him in."

Gertrude went up to Mr. Lukas's office anyway, and came back down to the archives white-lipped and fuming. A few days later, Mr. Lukas asked Martin — specifically, and only, Martin — up to see him.

"I'm told I need to work on my interpersonal skills," he said jovially, while Martin squirmed. "I'd like you to help me with that."

"Okay?" Martin asked dubious. "What — what would I do?"

"Oh, just the usual duties of a personal assistant." He made a dismissive hand gesture. "A few other trivialities."

"And … why me?"

Mr. Lukas's smile was wolfish. "Ms. Robinson's reviews of you have been … enlightening."

Martin had no idea what that meant. "I don't actually," he stammered, "I mean … I like the archives? Most of the time. I'm not really interested in leaving..."

Peter wrote a number on a slip of paper and passed it over the desk to him. Martin looked at the number, considered the current state of his bank account, and passed it back.

"When d'you want me to start?"

* * *

It was February when he got a phone call from Georgie Barker; he thought she'd blocked his number. _"John's back!" _she squealed.

For a moment, Martin had no idea who she was talking about. But then — "John the cat? He's alive?"

_"Yeah, apparently a _shelter _picked him up," _she said with a laugh, as if the idea of a stray cat being taken in by a shelter was utterly ludicrous. Well, perhaps for this particular stray cat. _"They wouldn't put him up for adoption because he's such a little monster, but the were also too stubborn to give up on 'socializing' him."_

He could hear the scare quotes in her tone, and couldn't really blame the shelter for trying. "Did he escape, or…?"

_"No, I just happened to be browsing their website — they wanted to buy a spot on the podcast — and saw his picture." _Something in her voice was flagging. _"He seems to be staying put for now, if you want to come see him…"_

Martin sighed. "I'm a bit swamped at work lately, actually, can I take a rain check?"

_"Oh, sure, I know how that is. We'll be here whenever you get a spare moment."_

"Thanks." He almost hung up, but then put the phone to his ear for just a moment. "And tell John I said hi."

* * *

_"Any chance you're free for a visit Saturday?"_

"Sorry, I'm working straight through this weekend."

* * *

_Jon scratched Melanie and I don't think she's ever going to forgive him, _Georgie texted, and Martin meant to respond, he really did, but somehow it got away from him.

* * *

She texted him a picture of John Doe and the Admiral sitting in a deep hole in her garden, covered in sticky mud. The Admiral was trying to groom John, which John clearly did not appreciate. _Someone tried to bury himself alive. Come cheer him up?_

Martin almost replied, but then Peter called through his office door. "Pardon me, Martin, but could you show me how to change the font on this form? I think I've set it to Comic Sans by accident."

"Peter, that's a PDF," Martin said, leaping to his feet, text forgotten. "You shouldn't be able to change it in the first place—"

* * *

The institute had an official car, now, and a driver named Bernard, who often ended up taking Martin home at night when he'd stayed at the office past the end of Tube service. That is, when he didn't just grab a few hours of sleep in the library and go right back to work.

When the headlights flashed off a pair of mismatched eyes in the shadows around his building, Martin's heart did a funny thing. He thanked Bernard as usual, and found John Doe sat directly in front of the door to his building, watching him intently. "Oh," Martin said, once he was certain it _was _John. "I guess if Mohammed doesn't go to the mountain…"

John meowed, and uncurled himself, twining around Martin's ankles instead.

Martin felt a stab of guilt that he'd gotten out of the habit of carrying cat treats. "Sorry, I don't — there's nothing for you," he said, and tried to nudge John out of the way. "I guess I've been busy."

John meowed again, and butted his head against the bottom of Martin's laptop bag.

"I just said I don't have any treats," he repeated. He must be exhausted if he was arguing with a cat.

John just sat there, not moving, entirely in the way as only a cat can be, and Martin had to gently but firmly nudge him away with one foot in order to get in the door. He felt a stab of guilt for it, but he was exhausted, and Peter had an early meeting tomorrow, which meant he had an even earlier appointment to coach Peter on the agenda and make sure he didn't insult any donors.

He went straight to bed when he got into his flat, and and his last muzzy thought was that John hadn't just barged in the way he usually did. Maybe he'd learnt some manners at the shelter...

* * *

The second time John appeared at Martin's door, it was raining, a miserable summer drizzle that did nothing to remedy the muggy air. John was curled into a loaf in the front step anyway, soaked to the skin, and he refused to move no matter how Martin nudged him.

"John," he plead. "I know you — I know I used to feed you and all. But I'm really busy, and I don't have time for this."

The cat was unmoved. He craned his head all the way back to look Martin in the face, and meowed once.

"Go back to Georgie's, why don't you?" Martin asked. He tried to open the door, but John made a surprisingly effective doorstop. "You're a menace."

No reaction.

Martin was caught in a feedback loop, annoyed and guilty and annoyed about his guilt and guilty for being annoyed. He snagged John by the scruff and lifted him off the concrete step. Predictably, John flailed and yowled, and when Martin set him down he initially darted out of reach before doubling back. That gave Martin enough time to slip through the door and shut it.

"Please stop finding me," Martin muttered against the steel and wood veneer, and then trudged up to his flat.

* * *

For a while Martin didn't see John at all, though he no longer had the mental bandwidth to worry the way he used to. He still couldn't reach Georgie Barker's level of non-commitment, but it was no longer a constant background thing; he still wanted John to be safe and happy and fed, and preferably not held hostage by a shelter, but he no longer felt it was his sole responsibility.

Probably that was healthier, he supposed. The cat was never even his.

He ran into Basira after a donor meeting one afternoon, and realized it was the first time he'd actually seen her in the flesh in … well, in too long. "Oh, er, hi," he stammered. "What brings you up here—?"

She thrust a card at him — well, a piece of printed A4 paper folded into quarters, like the ones he used to make on the old school computers with the dot-matrix printers. "Melanie's having a going-away party," she announced. "You're coming."

"I—oh?" Martin blinked as he fumbled with the card. "Where exactly is she going…?"

Basira shrugged. "Somewhere that's not here. Says her therapist is encouraging it, now that she's not on the axe throwing anymore."

Martin looked at the card, which involved some mismatched clip art and Comic Sans. The party was, for once, not happening at a pub, but at Georgie Barker's house. He wondered, idly, if John Doe would be in attendance, and then scolded himself for thinking of a cat at a time like this. "You sure she wants me there?" he asked warily. "I haven't exactly, erm."

"Been around?" Basira suggested. "Acknowledged us in the last, what, ten months? Stopped kissing up to Lukas since he poached you?"

"That's not fair," Martin protested.

Basira didn't argue with him, though; she just pressed the card back to his chest. "You're coming," she said firmly. "Melanie and Georgie want you there. Georgie's cats allegedly want you there, thought honestly I have no idea how she can tell. Daisy even wants you there, for some reason."

(Daisy had come back from her cave and been hired by Gertude, apparently in retaliation for Peter transferring Martin out of her domain. She was still moderately frightening, but also came into Martin's office just to chat at random intervals. She didn't loom as much as she used to, but Martin was still, deep down, too afraid to ask her to leave.)

"A - all right," Martin said. "I'll come."

Basira patted him on the arm and gave him a tight smile. "Good man. Bring your own drinks."

* * *

That evening, Martin stayed late to clear his desk (and by extension, Peter's) so he could have a guilt-free weekend off for a change. Bernard drove him home, chattering benignly about the football without expecting Martin to reciprocate, for which Martin was grateful. There were a few cats milling about the skips behind his building, but none of them were friendly, and Martin didn't bother trying to interact with them.

He trudged up the stairs to his flat, instead, wondering when sleeping in as late as he liked had become a decadent luxury and not just what Saturdays were for. Well, no, that was obvious — he'd traded free time away for Peter's pay rise. Free time, and friends, and any actual enjoyment of his job … not that he could go back to the archives, at this point. Not that Gertrude would likely ever forgive him for jumping ship … but then again, she apparently had an opening again—

He stopped, morose thoughts vanishing, at the top of the stairs. There was something sat in front of his door.

In the dim light on the landing it was hard to be sure exactly what it was, but when he prodded it with his foot it produced a soft, trilling chirp. Martin crouched down, and prodded it again with his hand, which sank into coarse fur. A head separated itself from the coiled jumble of skin and bones, and two mismatched eyes blinked at him.

Martin sighed. "Don't do that," he scolded, straightening, but John Doe just yawned at him. He must've slipped in with one of Martin's neighbors; he wondered how long the little cat had been waiting here, and if anyone had tried to evict him. (And, if someone had, if they still had all their fingers.)

John Doe uncurled and stretched a bit, which really only emphasized how skinny and scruffy he'd become. "You look like hell," Martin muttered as he unlocked the door, thinking unkind thoughts about Georgie Barker. "Are the others helping at all?"

John darted inside, and tried to jump onto the coffee table while Martin hung up his jacket. Unfortunately, said table was piled with old mail that Martin hadn't had the energy to sort through in a while; John landed on a slick advertising flier, and his forward momentum took him across the table and back onto the floor, and most of the post came with him. "Jesus, John," Martin groaned, as John bolted away from the scene of the crime. Though it was really his own fault for letting it pile up like that.

He knelt next to the sofa and started gathering the debris. Junk mail, bills — he thought he'd switched all those to electronic? Several postcards from Tim detailing his most recent travels; he was thinking of settling down in New Zealand to lead kayaking holidays. A card from Sasha, which turned out to be for Martin's birthday, months ago. She and the Posh Bastard were expecting a baby. (He probably should stop thinking of him as the Posh Bastard at some point.)

John reappeared at Martin's side, and put one paw tentatively on Martin's thigh. When Martin didn't object, he raised the other paw as well, and started kneading. "What do you want?" Martin asked, and got a bunt on the elbow in return. "I'm busy, okay? I've been … I've just been busy a lot."

The cat just gave a rusty purr — it always sounded rough, like the mechanism had gotten stuck from disuse. Martin finished sorting the post, but he stayed kneeling for a bit, petting John Doe and letting John knead his leg in return. "Missed you, too," he admitted, and John meowed at him. "Yeah, I know. You've been lonely, haven't you? Me too."

He no longer had any cat food in the flat, but he found some deli ham in the fridge that hadn't yet gone off. (Or, at least, it wasn't so far gone a starving, feral cat would turn its nose up at it.) Martin fed it to John Doe in strips while his ready meal was in the microwave, and while he ate at the couch, John loafed up on the same cushion he always used to sleep on. "I should evict you, you know," Martin said, glancing at him sideways. "It's not like you're staying."

John actually meowed at that, as if to protest.

"You _won't," _Martin replied; he was fully aware of the inanity of it, arguing with a cat like it was people. He was aware he'd probably already said more to this cat than he'd said to any actual human being besides Peter in months. "That's why you came to me, isn't it? I can't afford you — well, maybe now I could, but I haven't got the time for you, which is worse. You don't actually want to stay anywhere; you never do. You just want a good meal and a convenient radiator from time to time with no strings attached." He set the empty plastic tray on top of the teetering stack of post and collapsed back onto the couch at an angle. "Well, you're welcome. Because this is the last time I'm letting you up."

John meowed again, and unfurled himself from his cushion. After a moment's hesitation, he put one foot on Martin's lap again, then the other. And then, moving slowly, another foot. From his leg to his stomach, from his stomach to his chest — "Hey," Martin protested, but he suddenly had an angular ball of cat laying directly on top of him, practically nose to nose.

Just as tentatively, Martin reached up to scratch between John's notched ears. John twitched, but then settled again. "Is this your counter-argument?" Martin asked.

John gave a very small yip, and started purring again.

Martin sighed, and let his head fall back against the arm of the sofa. "Okay, then. I stand corrected."

He knew that he ought to move, go sleep in his actual bed instead of punishing his neck and back with the sofa. But he was tired and full of food, and there was a warm, vibrating cat on his chest, and there really couldn't be any harm in just shutting his eyes for a bit…


	5. Chapter 5

Martin started awake, shaken from an uneasy dream — something about monsters in the Institute, and secret tunnels, and a fog so dense he couldn't breath. He couldn't breath in the real world, either: something heavy had settled directly on his chest and stomach, and he blearily tried to shove it away before it even occurred to him to wonder what it was.

He came quickly to full alertness when his hand encountered warm, smooth skin. The weight on his torso, it turned out, was a man. A _naked _man.

Martin screamed.

The man also screamed, and flailed helplessly as Martin shoved him away and stumbled to his feet. "Who the hell are you?" he demanded frantically.

The man, however, was staring in almost every direction except at Martin. He blinked owlishly at his own knees, his own hands, and mumbled "Good lord," in a low, hoarse voice; he patted his own scruffy beard and hair as if he'd never noticed them before.

Martin felt at his pockets and was relieved to find he still had his phone on him. "I'm calling the police," he announced to the — creeper? Pervert? Extremely stoned neighbor who'd managed to enter the wrong flat? The door was locked, he was sure he'd locked the door after he let the cat in—

The word _police _seemed to catch the man's attention, finally. He stared up at Martin with the same baffled expression, then seemed to realize in the same moment that Martin was furious and he himself was nude. "Hi," he said, covering his lap with his hands and forcing a wall-eyed, awkward smile. "Erm. I can explain this."

"You can explain," Martin said, "to the police," though adrenaline was making his hands shake so badly he couldn't manage his lock screen.

"Please don't do that," the man said, and he struggled to his feet — he seemed to be having tremendous trouble with it, fumbling like he was drunk, or didn't quite know where all of his limbs were at any given time.

Martin still wasn't taking any chances, though; he backed away, putting the coffee table between the two of them. "Stay back!" he shouted. "Stay away from me!"

"I don't —" The man took a wobbling, coltish step forward. "If I could just _explain —"_

"Not a chance!" Martin stepped back again, and found himself standing in the doorway to the bedroom; he swiftly shut the door and locked it. "I am calling the _police," _he said firmly. "Unless you get the hell out of my flat."

"Martin," the man said, and that just added to the creepiness factor, because _how did he know his name. _"I know this looks — peculiar — and I'm sorry, but — look, can I borrow some trousers or something?"

"No," Martin snapped.

There was a frustrated growl from the other side of the door, one that sounded weirdly familiar, though Martin was in no state of mind to examine that at the moment. "Call Georgie Barker, then."

Martin had just entered the third nine into his phone, and froze with his thumb over the call button. "What's Georgie have to do with anything?" he asked warily.

"She knows who I am," the man said pleadingly. "She'll vouch for me. I think. I hope so, at least."

"Is this some kind of … weird prank?" Martin asked warily. Georgie had never struck him as having that sort of sense of humor, but this was apparently not a morning when the world would be making sense.

"No," the man insisted. "I swear it. Just call her, please."

Something about the urgency in his voice tugged at Martin's heartstrings, which was surprising, because he hadn't realized he had any of those left after nearly a year of putting up with Peter's bullshit. He sighed, and went to his contacts list. "Okay. But if this is some sort of trick…"

"It's not. Well. Not on you, anyway."

Georgie's phone rang out the first time he tried calling; he wasn't surprised, because it was something like six in the morning on a Saturday. He didn't bother leaving a voicemail, just tried again, and this time she answered drowsily on the third ring. _"Martin? What's going on?"_

"Hi Georgie," he said, "funny you should ask, there is a _nude man _in my flat who says he knows you, do you care to comment?"

_"What?" _

"Let me talk to her," the man called from the other side of the door.

"No."

"Please, Martin."

_"Who is he?" _Georgie asked.

"I don't know, some kind of … random creeper!" _Rogue snuggler _was the first phrase that came to mind, but he somehow doubted she'd take that seriously.

_"Look, Martin, I know a lot of people," _Georgie said. _"Most of them have been naked at one time or another. I need a name."_

"I don't … hold on." Martin pressed the phone to his shoulder and knocked on the door. "Oi. Creeper. What's your name?"

"I'm not a —" A heavy, resigned sigh. "Jonathan Sims. Tell her it's Jon."

Martin relayed this into the phone. Georgie shrieked so loudly that he dropped it.

_"--look like?" _she was asking when he picked it up again. _"Martin? Tell me exactly what he looks like?" _

"I don't know, I wasn't exactly — it's dark and he's _naked," _Martin protested.

_"How tall is he? What color's his hair?"_

Martin cracked the door slowly to get a proper measure. The man was standing a bit too close, and gave that awkward smile again. "Er. Five-six, maybe? Five-seven? And … gray?"

_"Gray?" _

"Salt and pepper," Martin amended, shutting the door again quickly. "Does that sound right?"

Georgie laughed in his ear, high and breathless. _"Give him the phone." _

"Hang on, I want—"

_"Martin, I have been waiting to properly shout at this man since 2011," _she said urgently. _"I'm on my way to yours, but in the meantime, give. Him. The. Phone."_

What he probably should've done was hung up on her and called the police, like he'd meant to. But it was far too early and he was far too confused, and his rude awakening was giving him a whanging headache. Martin sighed, and cracked the door again, thrusting the phone through it. "She wants to talk to you," he announced.

Jonathan Sims took the phone gingerly and raised it to his ear. "Hi, Georgie," he said, tentatively.

Georgie, it turned out, wasn't kidding about the shouting.

Martin shut the door again, though Jonathan was standing close enough that he could still his side of the conversation, even if Georgie's was now muffled. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry! … I don't know! If I knew, don't you think I'd have done it before now? … yeah. Yes, I feel — obviously I can't know for sure, but I think it's permanent. It's over. … I have no idea."

There was a long pause, and then Jonathan knocked hesitantly on the door. "Er. Georgie's on her way."

"She said."

"Yes. Well." Jonathan cleared his throat. "About those clothes? And — could I possibly use your shower?"

"Oh, sure," Martin said, feeling as though he'd rapidly lost all control of the situation. "And I'll just make you a cup of tea while I'm at it."

"That - that won't be necessary," Jonathan muttered, cringing.

Martin shoved a t-shirt and a pair of boxers through the door, and waited until he heard the shower start up to leave the bedroom. He did make tea, because he desperately needed some kind of emotional support, and once he boiled the kettle he could just as easily make three cups as one. He was more than halfway through his tea when he remembered why he'd fallen asleep on the sofa last night, and realized that he hadn't seen John Doe the cat in all this chaos. Maybe he'd run out when Jonathan snuck in — however he'd snuck in — or … ?

Jonathan emerged from the bathroom, interrupting Martin's train of thought. Martin's clothes hung off his frame like sacks, and he'd pulled the drawstring on the boxers so tight it dangled down to his knees. His hair stuck up in cowlicks, and he'd shaved — Martin was briefly grateful he bought cheap disposable razors in bulk bags. Jonathan's face was fairly youthful looking despite all the gray hair, with a sharp chin and the sort of nose the word _aquiline _was invented for, and his eyes—

His eyes—

"Thank you," Jonathan was saying, hesitantly, and offering Martin his wet towel with one hand. There was a scar on his hand, a burn scar that wrapped around the palm and fingers. "I, er, I didn't see a hamper in the bath..?"

Martin stared, tallying up all the other scars he could see — a notch in the cartilage of his ear, a long cut on the other wrist, small nicks and pockmarks here and there. On his leg, just visible below the hem of the boxers, was a large round scar with stitch marks around the edges.

And his right eye was a dark brown, but the left was a crystalline blue.

"Fuck off," Martin blurted, and made it to a chair before his legs gave out.

* * *

Jon had to buzz Georgie up when she arrived, because Martin was still sat on the chair with his head between his knees.

"What did you do to him?"

"I didn't do anything! He just — I don't think he's taking it well."

"Well, _obviously." _There was a thump, and Georgie appeared in Martin's line of sight. At least her shoes did, and a hand settled lightly on his back. "Martin? Are you okay?"

"No," Martin informed her.

"...that's understandable, I suppose."

In the interest of being a responsible host, Martin forced himself to straighten up. It was all right if he only looked at Georgie, he found, but if he looked at Jon — John — if he looked at _that one _his whole brain tried to fold itself in half. "That man is a cat," he said, hoping desperately that she'd have an explanation.

All she said was, "Yes. Yes, he was."

Martin took a fortifying breath, and wished he hadn't dropped his tea. "Why," he managed to ask, "was that man a cat?"

Georgie looked over her shoulder. "You didn't tell him?"

"And when should I have done that, exactly?" Jon asked archly. "While he was screaming at me, or while he was hyperventillating?"

"You _are_ back to your old self, aren't you?" Georgie turned back to Martin. "This is a sort of a long story. Can I get you a glass of water?"

"Tea," he plead.

She made it sweet and milky, and once Martin was properly fortified, she sat down opposite him on the couch. Jon perched awkwardly on the cushion on the other end, and Martin could not think about how that had been John Doe's usual cushion as well because _his cat was a man _and he didn't want to spill this cup of tea as well. "Okay," he said, and forced himself to look at Jon. "How?"

He sighed. "Would you believe I was cursed by a witch?"

"She was an emeritus professor of folklore," Georgie put in.

Jon scowled at her. "I'm fairly certain it wasn't her emeritus status that let her _turn me into a cat, _Georgie."

"I'm just trying to provide the proper context," she protested.

Jon rolled his mismatched eyes. "Yes, all right, she was an emeritus professor of folklore. Angela Bexley." He looked down at his hands. "I was working on my master's degree in parapsychology, and she agreed to have coffee with me and answer a few questions about her work. I … it got out of hand. We argued, and I … believe my exact words were 'a fraud who caters to the credulous and preys on the vulnerable.'"

"And she turned you into a cat?" Martin asked.

Jon shook his head. "She said something melodramatic about showing _me _vulnerability, and flounced off. I woke up a cat the next morning."

"Fortunately," Georgie said, "I never did give you your key back, and you'd finally upgraded from your stupid flip phone." She turned to face Martin. "He could type a bit, back then, so he told me what had happened, but I couldn't find Professor Bexley and I wasn't going to work out how to change him back on my own."

"Wait," Martin said, because the implications of this were horrifying. "You're saying he — you, you were a person in a cat's body? You could communicate?" _You understood all the nonsense I said to you? _he didn't actually ask, but he thought it was implied.

Jon cringed. "In a sense? I had all the, I suppose, the instincts of a cat, but I could still reason and remember. At first, anyway. But the longer I was stuck …" He trailed off for a moment, and bit his lower lip. "Well. Cats don't feel _hope_, so they don't feel _despair_, either. The longer it went on, the harder it was to believe I'd ever change back, and I realized I could just … decide to stop thinking about it. About _anything_. It was … easier, that way."

...Christ, and Martin had been worried about a couple embarrassing conversations. He glanced at Georgie, but her face was a mix of sorrow and annoyance. "Easier for you, maybe," she said a bit tartly. "I didn't know if you _couldn't _understand me anymore, or you were just choosing to ignore me. I thought I _lost _you."

Jon peered at her from behind his fringe. "I'm sorry, Georgie, I really am."

"I know you are." She glanced back at Martin. "So how'd you do it?"

He blinked at her. "Do what?"

"Change him back," she prompted. "I assumed there was something, you know, Magnus-y involved, since you work there?"

"I have no idea," Martin said. Jon shrugged helplessly as well. "I let him into the flat and — hang on," he realized as he spoke, "why were you waiting outside my flat, anyway? _How _were you waiting outside my flat?"

"The woman with the walking frame on the ground floor let me in," Jon said, a bit defensively.

"And you came in because…?"

He cowered a bit, and Martin had a perfect vision of the cat version of him crouching with its ears back and hackles up. "I missed you," he said in a small voice.

Martin goggled. He supposed he ought to be touched, and he probably would be when he'd slept and eaten something solid, but at the moment the best he could manage was incredulity. "You spent how many years running away every time I got near you—"

"Well, I changed my mind," he shot back, folding his arms across his chest. "Just like you did."

"What's _that _supposed to mean?"

"Nothing."

"Well, fine."

_"Fine."_

"Oh my god, " Georgie said, pressing her fingers to her temples, "it is not even seven o'clock and I already need a drink."

As if summoned by a reference to day drinking, Peter called. Martin knew it was Peter because he'd set a custom ringtone for him, an instrumental version of "Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now." (The joke hadn't landed; apparently Peter wasn't much of a Smiths fan.) Martin chased down his phone and sent it to voicemail, because there was only so much absurdity he could deal with at one time.

"I'm just saying," he started to say in Jon's direction, but Peter called again. Voicemail. "I just feel like I need re-evaluate the past however many years in light of the fact that the bastard feral cat I've been feeding—"

Peter called again. "There's no need to be rude," Jon sniffed, while Martin sent the call to voicemail for a third time.

"How many times did you bite Tim, again?"

"Tim…?" Jon had to think about that for a moment, but then he grimaced. "Oh. Erm. He … smelled suspicious."

"He smelled — ?" Before Martin could assemble a proper response to that, Peter called yet again, and his train of thought crashed into a flaming wreck. He answered, and shouted into his phone, "What?"

_"Good morning!" _Peter was always inhumanly chipper, but especially for seven o'clock on a Saturday. _"I was wondering if you could come round the office later today. Something's come up and I need you to—"_

Every atom of Martin's being rebelled against the thought of spending another Saturday in the office, trying to teach Peter to mail merge or whatever nonsense he had planned for the day. And, he realized with dawning hysteria, he didn't have to. His cat was a person. Anything was possible.

"No," he said.

_"...I'm sorry?"_

"No. I. Cannot. Come. In." Martin said distinctly.

For the first time in however many months, Peter actually sounded surprised. _"Martin, that wasn't actually a question—"_

"Then fire me," Martin said. He stabbed the end call button with particular malice. Then he switched his phone off. Then he tried to pry the battery out of the back, for good measure, but Georgie took it away from him before he got very far, and shoved him in the direction of the couch. He ended up sat next to Jon, and for good measure, put his head between his knees again.

"So," Georgie said after several seconds of awkward silence. "It sounds like the two of you have some … things to talk about? And I have to throw a party for my girlfriend today, so unless you need me…?"

Things. Party. Right. "You should go," Martin said reluctantly, even if he had a lot more questions. "Get ready for Melanie's do and all."

There was that thump again, and when Martin looked up, Georgie had plopped a large leather suitcase next to the coffee table. "Right. I grabbed some clothes, your wallet, and your computer, although I have no idea if its still works. All the rest of your stuff is still in my attic."

Jon stared at the suitcase like it was about to explode. "And...that's it?"

Georgie rubbed her left arm with her right hand. "For the time being, I guess? You can stay at mine tonight, if you like, but I'm going to have about two dozen paranormal YouTubers and archivists over this afternoon, and you can't hide under the furniture anymore."

"I...yes," Jon stammered. "That does sound … intense."

"So … I guess I'll call when everyone's gone?" Georgie continued awkwardly.

"I don't have a phone," Jon reminded her. Then his face fell. "I don't — Christ, do I even still have a bank account? Am I dead? You didn't have me declared dead, did you?"

"Nobody has declared you dead," she said patiently. "Though I think your bank card expired."

"Christ," Jon said again, and buried his face in his hands.

Even if he was annoyed, and confused, and possibly having some kind of personal crisis, Martin wasn't a _monster_. Jon looked very frail just then, after all, and deep down Martin supposed he was still the sort of person to feed strays. "I can help," he said, and Jon's head snapped up to stare at him. "I mean, at least with some of it. I've got a phone and a working computer, and I'm pretty sure I just quit my job, so."

He tried for a game smile. Georgie smiled back, and mouthed _thank you _at him. Jon looked like he might cry. "I - I would appreciate it," he said softly. "Just while I get back on my feet, of course."

"So, just like the last time?" Martin tried to joke.

Jon seemed to suddenly remember the suitcase was there, and just as suddenly decide it was an urgent matter. "I should get dressed properly, let you have your things back…" he said quickly, and scuttled off into the bedroom.

Georgie huffed a small laugh. "Some things never change."

Martin stood when she did, and tried to stretch out the crick in his back that came from sleeping on the couch. "How did you two know each other, exactly?" he asked, genuinely curious.

"Oh, we used to date," she said, and smirked when Martin couldn't keep his reaction off his face. "Yeah. Ended about as well as you'd expect, but I guess he still had me in his contacts when he needed me."

"Lucky him," he murmured.

She patted him on the arm again as she stepped past him toward the door. "Thank you, Martin. Really. I don't know what you did…"

"I didn't do anything," he insisted. "Unless ham has magical properties or something."

"Well, whatever," Georgie said. "Thank you." She gave him his phone back, and slipped out the door.


	6. Chapter 6

After a bit more sleep and some solid food, Martin felt marginally better able to cope with the situation. At least, he managed to put aside his many, _many _personal questions in order to consider the practicalities. He made lists of people to call and questions to ask, while Jon tried (and mostly failed) to log into various websites on Martin's laptop.

"Didn't you save your passwords somewhere, like a normal person?" Martin asked while Jon muttered darkly at Gmail.

"Of course not," he shot back. He'd put on a t-shirt, corduroys, and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses that made him look about ten years older. "That is the point of _having passwords."_

"What about family?" Martin asked, starting a new list on a fresh page of his notepad. "Friends?"

Jon harrumphed. "Georgie doesn't know my passwords, either."

Martin rolled his eyes. "I mean to call, or tell, or — is she the only one who knew you were a cat?"

That got him to pause and think for a moment. "I suppose so," he concluded. "But I honestly can't think of anyone else I'd need to tell."

Martin blinked at him while he continued stabbing at the laptop in consternation. "Nobody?"

"My dissertation advisor, I suppose," Jon allowed. "But given her tenuous grasp on on her professional duties, and the general concept of linear time, I don't expect she even noticed I was gone."

Somehow this didn't seem to strike him as unbearably sad; then again, it wasn't like Martin had an active social life, either. He cleared his throat and titled the list _Long Term _instead. "You might want to call her anyway, at some point. You'll need some kind of references to apply for jobs."

Jon made a pained noise and covered his face with his hands. "Please don't remind me of that right now."

"Right. Sorry." Martin chewed on the end of his pen absently for a bit. "Though there's openings at the Magnus Institute, you know. Not that I can recommend it while Peter's still there…"

"Not that I have the right qualifications," Jon added grimly.

Martin snorted at that. "Believe me, nobody checks those too closely. Especially not for the archives. I don't even have a degree."

"Really?"

"Mm-hmm. Gertrude's last assistant ran off to Russia to become a sculptor or something, and I needed the money and was willing to start right away. Picked up the Latin and such as I went along." Jon didn't say anything for a bit, and when Martin glanced up, he found him staring at him thoughtfully. It was funny, how familiar it felt, even if everything was different but the one blue eye. "Sorry, did I say something—?"

"No, no," Jon assured him, and went back to furiously typing for a moment. Then he paused. "Just that. Well. We don't really know one another, do we?"

"I thought you were a cat until six hours ago," Martin pointed out.

"That's what I _meant." _Jon's tone suggested that, while he no longer had a tail to fluff out, he would have done if he could. "I don't — it's just odd. We've known each other for years now, technically, but all I really _know _about you is your taste in takeaway and your stubborn affinity for difficult cats."

"Is that supposed to be a compliment?"

Jon ducked his head. "...yes, actually."

Oh. Martin considered the question seriously. Jon was still belligerent, though he seemed more inclined to sarcasm than literal biting, and he was still prickly, if his reaction to Martin's help was any indication. The fact that he no longer broadcast his moods with the position of his tail was something of a disappointment, but Martin supposed he'd learn to deal with it.

Because Jon had also bullied his way into Martin's flat and fallen asleep on him, and that probably meant something.

So Martin started ticking off on his fingers. "You just said you went to uni, so that's one thing I know. You must not have any family, or at least none you're close to. You're a bit cranky, a bit pretentious, you mostly _share _my taste in takeaway and for some reason you like bleu cheese."

"I object to _pretentious," _Jon said. "Especially since _you _recite your own poetry into a tape recorder."

"That's not pretentious, that's performance art," Martin argued.

Jon scoffed. "Synonyms."

Just for that, Martin ticked off another finger. "I also know you and Georgie used to date, and I know Melanie, so assuming Georgie's got a type…"

"I _beg _your pardon?" Jon looked so offended that Martin started laughing. "Mind yourself, Blackwood. I've seen you wandering around the flat in your pants."

"And I've seen you shit in a box." Martin clapped a hand over his face. "Jesus. That's weird. That's never going to stop being weird."

"How do you think _I _feel?" Jon groused.

"I don't know," Martin said, "you tell me."

That seemed to catch him by surprise; Martin was a little surprised at himself, to be honest, but he did want to know. Needed to know, really, where the hell he stood with this familiar stranger. Jon fidgeted. "It's … difficult to put into words," he hemmed. "Or rather, putting it into words implies a far higher degree of self-awareness and rationality than was involved at the time. Cats don't really think. Cats _do."_

"Cats bite people for smelling suspicious?" Martin guessed.

"Look, if you could've smelled—" Jon cut himself off and ran a hand through his hair, making it stick up wildly on one side. "Not the point. The point is … I never expected to meet you, properly, I mean. As a person. I sort of gave up on that after the first year. It's part of why I avoided Georgie, to be honest, because she wanted to fix it and I was tired of disappointing her."

Martin nodded; he knew a thing or two about disappointment. "But just being somebody's pet didn't appeal?"

"Not … initially," Jon said carefully. "I mean, I'm still … I was always _me, _just … less rational and very small. And I didn't want to give that up. Even if it meant eating out of skips and hiding from foxes. I am … I value my independence, I always have."

"I noticed," Martin said. Jon pulled a face at him. "So what changed?"

There was a long pause, and stared furiously at his hands. "...you?"

Martin blinked.

"I … like you," Jon continued, as if this was a terribly shameful admission. "And you were always far kinder to me than I deserved. When I stopped seeing you around, I realized that I missed you, and … and I supposed there were worse places to end up than with a … a friend?"

He looked so pathetically hopeful, and so unsure, and Martin felt simultaneously exasperated and fond. So he did the first thing that came to mind, which was to offer Jon a hand. "Nice to meet you, Jonathan Sims. I look forward to getting to know you better."

Jon blinked stupidly for a minute, and then shook Martin's hand. A small, cautious smile spread across his face. "I — I think I look forward to that as well."

"Cool," Martin said. "But you probably ought to call your bank, first."

Jon groaned, but when Martin passed over his mobile, he took it in hand.

* * *

Martin put in a brief appearance at Melanie's do, as he'd promised Basira, thought he didn't mention his possibly-getting-fired status to anyone. Afterward, he took Jon out for curry and a couple of beers. Jon waxed rhapsodic about all the things he could eat (and all the things he'd never have to eat) again now that he was human again, and in between they chatted. Like friends do. Martin had almost forgotten what that felt like.

Sunday was quiet; he slept in, lazed around on the sofa for a bit, browsed job postings in a desultory way. In the afternoon he helped Jon sort through the boxes in Georgie's attic, deciding what of his things were worth keeping and what had to be donated or thrown away.

Georgie let Martin stay for dinner, after, and Melanie was there. She greeted Jon, then asked, "You're the cat, right?"

"Former cat," Jon said archly.

Melanie waved off the distinction. "Okay, but _how? _There's … law of conservation of mass, and things."

She tried to poke Jon's arm, as if it would prove to be an illusion. Jon didn't hiss at her, but it seemed to be a near thing. "Maybe you should ask the emeritus professor of folklore responsible," he said icily.

"Well, excuse me for exhibiting some professional curiosity," Melanie snapped.

"I was under the impression that you weren't a professional _anything _at the moment."

"Oh, that's rich, coming from a _cat—" _

Georgie steered them to opposite ends of the table. "And this is why it's better that you two don't talk to each other."

Martin, taking a seat next to Jon, muttered under his breath, "She has a type." Jon _did _hiss at that.

Melanie did make a good point though, which was, "Maybe it was automatic?"

"Changing back?" Jon asked. "How do you mean?"

She shrugged. "Seven years. Nice round number. Lots of fairy tales use sevens."

Jon considered this. "It hasn't been _exactly_ seven … not that I have any better hypothesis, I suppose."

"Well, the other hypothesis is that you tripped some, I dunno, win condition?" Martin suggested. "Like Sleeping Beauty with—"

He didn't say _true love's kiss, _because he had some self-preservation instincts, and because Jon looked like he was going to choke on his salad. (Cats couldn't digest vegetables well, apparently.) Georgie, however, picked up the thread. "What was it she said to you? Something about … exposure, vulnerability?"

Jon put his fork down and cleared his throat several times. "She said, 'perhaps I'll teach you what it means to be vulnerable, you arrogant streak of piss.'"

Melanie almost choked on her drink. Georgie frowned. "Not sure how your get more vulnerable than a stray cat."

"I suppose there's more than one sort of vulnerability, isn't there?" Martin pointed out. Jon gave him a narrow look, and Martin didn't actually want him to flee the room and try to hide under furniture, so he changed the subject. "By the way, I meant to ask — how long have you two been dating, exactly? During or after the axe throwing phase?"

Jon's hackles, now entirely metaphorical, slowly went down, and the conversation moved on.

* * *

Martin walked into the Institute on Monday morning, fully expecting to be sent right back home again. However, when he poked his head into Peter's office, he didn't find the man he expected to be lounging there, ready to pelt him with demands and non sequiturs.

Instead, a short, slim Black man was paging through a file. He looked up at the sound of the door moving and smiled. "Ah. You must be Martin. Gertrude said you'd be in promptly."

"Hi," Martin said inanely. "And...who are you?"

The man stood up and came around the desk to offer Martin a hand. "Adelard Dekker. I'll be taking over as head of the Institute from now on."

Martin blinked, even as he shook Dekker's hand. "What happened to—?"

"Ah, Captain Lukas is no longer available," Dekker said smoothly. "Gertrude put in a good word for me with the board, however, and I trust you won't mind getting me up to speed?"

"S-sure." Martin didn't know what _no longer available _meant, and he really didn't like the idea of taking on yet _another _institute director … but if Dekker was a friend of Gertrude's, well, that was something, right?

Dekker smiled at him. "Excellent. I'll get us some tea from the canteen while you get settled in. Oh, and could you please check my expense report there? I think I filled it in right, but it's been a while since I had a desk job, and I'm a bit rusty."

"Oh...sure." Martin picked up the file, while Dekker bustled out of the office. Peter had never fetched him tea. Or said _please, _come to think of it.

Or … he examined the expense report … purchased fifty pounds of dry concrete mix on the Institute's tab. But, he supposed, it could be a lot worse. At least he wasn't fired, right?

* * *

Several days later — blissful days in which Mr. Dekker said _please _and _don't worry about it _and _I'll handle this on my own, _while Martin actually got to come in at nine and leave at five like a normal person — he found Jon smoking on the front steps of the Institute when he took his lunch.

"Something else cats can't do, yeah?" Martin asked.

Jon, looking a bit dazed, nodded. "Don't tell Georgie. She always did want me to quit."

Martin lowered himself to the step beside Jon. "What are you doing around here, anyway? Don't tell me you're actually applying for a job…"

"I didn't," Jon said, and tapped a bit of ash off his cigarette. "Got hired anyway, though."

"What?"

"I don't know!" He raked a hand through his hair. "I came to give a statement, because I thought you lot might have more information on Angela Bexley, especially if she's made a habit of going around turning people into animals. The receptionist sent me down to the archives, and I got to talking with Ms. Robinson, and … apparently I start on Monday."

That sounded right, in Martin's experience; when Gertrude felt like it, she could just about sell coal in Newcastle. "For reference, is this a good thing or a bad thing?" he asked, just to check.

"Oh, good, it's good," Jon assured him, and took a puff of his cigarette. "Not like I can stay with Georgie forever, and I finally worked out that I can't access my bank account because it no longer exists."

"Oh. Well, I suppose that means I'm treating you to lunch, then," Martin said.

Jon blinked. "So you're not fired? That's convenient."

"You're telling me." He stood up, and offered Jon a hand. "Come on. That kebab stand you like isn't too far from here."

Jon crushed out his cigarette and accepted the help. "For the record, just because I ate it doesn't mean I liked it. Stray cats eat a lot of things."

"Do you want me to buy you lunch or not?"

"Of course I do. I'm just saying…"

The weather was unusually fine for autumn, with a sky so deeply blue it looked just a bit unreal. Like someone had turned up the saturation on reality. Martin might actually like his job again, and he liked at least one of his coworkers, and there were cats in the world, even if none of them were his. Thing weren't exactly perfect, but they were finally looking up, and he realized that, for the first time in a while, he was looking forward to whatever was coming next.


End file.
